


A Lack of Situational Awareness

by spiced_chai_nebula



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, John Reese's Bulletproof Harold Finch Kink, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex as a metaphor for relationship and loyalty and all that good stuff, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-05 18:20:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20277715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiced_chai_nebula/pseuds/spiced_chai_nebula
Summary: John's normally so good with knowing what's around him. Of course, the one time he drops his guard he walks in on one very naked Harold Finch, and naked Harold Finch's very Impressive Cock.This is going to prove difficult to ignore.





	A Lack of Situational Awareness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArgylePirateWD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/gifts).

> This was written for the Vice and Fen exchange.
> 
> ArgylePirateWD, reading through your prompts, I got the distinct impression you were a fan of John and Harold. I took a handful of your Very Excellent Tags and turned them into this. Enjoy!

John Reese blamed the exhaustion. He'd been awake for nearly forty-eight hours, and he had gotten sloppy. Let his guard down. Stopped checking his surroundings. And now, he was paying the price for that. 

The price didn't have the decency to be something reasonable. Like an assassin with a knife or a thug with a machine gun. John knew how to handle unexpected attackers. Kneecap shots. Broken elbows. Choke holds. If it had been an assassin, he would have had options. 

No, instead, he found himself faced with one Harold Finch, fresh out of the shower. 

In retrospect, John could see where he went wrong. Belatedly, his mind replayed walking through the guest room in order to get to the bathroom. The guest room with its blankets disturbed, closet door slightly open, the discarded clothes folded neatly in a pile by the door. Clear signs of occupancy. He'd been blind to miss them.

Blind, but he couldn't help but see now. Harold stood, head tilted back so he could run a towel through his hair, his groin thrust slightly toward the door, towards John, inviting attention. 

And oh, John thought, as he stood stock-still in the doorway and stared at that groin, what attention it deserved. Harold's cock was thick, and _long_, even mostly flacid the thing was magnificent, stretching nearly halfway down Harold's thighs. John's mouth went dry as he stared at it, something raw and primal running through him. 

He wanted that cock. 

Almost in response to John's staring, the cock twitched, swelled even larger, and John felt fire pool in the join of his own legs. 

A polite cough sounded, and John's eyes flew up to meet Harold's. Harold, without his glasses, was nonetheless staring at John with a steady, even gaze. John felt his cheeks flush. Harold had always known more than John intended him to. Did he know this too, how desperately John wanted to go to his knees and choke himself on that cock?

John looked away. "Gotta…" John trailed off and jerked his head toward the toilet. Too late to flee. No tactical advantage to retreat. 

"Of course," Harold said, impossibly mild, and he slid out past John. 

The image of mouth-watering cock was still seared as an afterimage in John's brain. John hadn't been aware that he had a deep and desperate desire to be impaled, but apparently, he very much did. He was unable to think about anything anything other than being stretched open, that massive length being guided between his ass cheeks by Harold's certain hands, pressing in and in and in, until he couldn't think of anything else but the stretch and the movement. 

John finished his business and went over to wash his hands, distracted the whole time with dreams of how Harold might take him. Gentle, John thought, but implacable. He'd part John's thighs and finger him open slowly. But then the fingers would vanish, Harold would press that his huge cock against John's entrance, and he'd tell John that he was taking it. John wouldn't even protest that he couldn't. 

He could. For Harold, he could. 

Hell of a time to discover he had a size kink, John thought with a grumble, belatedly getting the soap instead of just letting the water run over his hands uselessly as he daydreamed. He snorted as he scrubbed, before shaking his head and actually turning off the water.

He didn't have a size kink. He had a Harold Finch kink, and he had for awhile now. 

John left the bathroom, and stopped, nearly choking on his tongue as he caught sight of Harold, sprawled out on the bed, naked except for his glasses, holding a book in one hand, idly stroking his cock in the other. His cock, that had somehow managed to get _even larger_ now fully erect and jutting out proudly from between his hips. 

Harold must have heard his strangled noise, because he set the book down and gave John a slight smile. "I hadn't realized," he said simply, still stroking his cock in one hand, and beckoning John with his other, "that this was something you might want of me." 

"I don't— don't need…" John stuttered, "I wouldn't ask—" 

"I know." Harold said softly and surely. "But John, you can't imagine there is anything you'd want that I wouldn't give you."

John stood, frozen, a thousand possibilities unspooling in his mind.

"Come here, John," Harold ordered. 

John obeyed. Once he got to the edge of bed, Harold reached forward and took his hand. It was a mild gesture (if you could ignore the very not-mild nudity) but it still sent a shiver running up John's arm. Harold squeezed, and John's breath caught in his throat. 

"It doesn't need to be now. Think, if you need to. Consider it an open offer," Harold ran his thumb over John's knuckles, and John had to fight down a shudder. "Yours when you want it." 

"I want it." The jagged, raw words burst out of him, filling the room. John set his jaw and doubled down. "Now." 

Harold smiled. "Excellent." And then his grip tightened and he _pulled_. 

John wasn't sure exactly how he wound up on his back, clothes off, Harold between his legs. He just knew that Harold was touching him, was handling him. Harold stroked and held and pressed with utter care and utter confidence. He had always known exactly how to use John, and John had always wanted to be used. 

"Please." John was begging, and he didn't care. He canted his hips towards Harold. "Harold, Harold, please…" 

"Of course," Harold soothed. "It's yours, John," he whispered, as his slicked, blunt fingers teased John open. "It's always been yours." 

John impatiently bore the stretching, pressing down harder and faster against the fingers. "Fuck me, Harold. Come on." 

"Always so mission focused," Harold said, a smile in his voice as he withdrew his fingers. "I've always admired that about you." 

John opened one eye to find Harold stretching a condom over his cock. John half expected it to split under the strain of trying to contain that massive girth. Harold stroked it and gave John a hooded, lazy look. 

John belatedly realized that _he_ was about to try to contain that massive girth. Fresh want rolled over him, he desperately braced himself and pushed, trying to line Harold up himself. 

Harold gave a gentle rolling chuckle, and laid a hand against John's hips, settling him back down to the bed. Only when John gave up on his movement did Harold shift and grip John's hips, holding hims still. John felt something big, so big, sliding between his asscheeks. 

"Oh God…" John gasped.

"Too much?" Harold asked, a solicitous concern in his voice. "If you need, we can certainly…"

"I can handle it," John said quickly. He looked up, and found worry on Harold's face. John reached up, and brushed his fingers against Harold's cheek. "I can handle you. You've never doubted me before. Don't start now."

Harold's eyes fell shut, and he nuzzled against John's hand. "You have always been extraordinary." 

John groaned at the words. Harold had no idea what his faith did to John. Or maybe he did. It was Harold, after all.

"Open for me, John," Harold said, in a tone that showed no sign of doubt, and started thrusting in. 

The stretch was a delicious burn, John was opened, slowly and surely, millimeter by deliberate millimeter. Harold was slow, but God, was he steady, there wasn't any relief for John. He just kept pressing, until John couldn't do anything but throw his head back and gasp for air.

John couldn't think of anything but that pressure, that heat, as Harold opened him up and took him, and just kept taking. It hurt, it felt amazing, it was impossible, it was inevitable.

"So good for me, John," Harold said, and stopped moving. 

John opened his eyes again, and before he could protest, he realized Harold was seated with his hips pressed flush against John's ass, fully seated inside him. John moaned. 

"I'm going to fuck you now," Harold said, and got to work.

John gave a hitched little gasp as Harold started moving. It was almost a laugh, almost a sob, just pure overwhelmed emotion. He was being pushed to the brink of what he could do, what he could take, but he _could take it._

And Harold _took_ him, starting slow and moving faster, until his hips snapped hard against John in a frantic hammering pace. It stopped when he jacked himself in to the hilt, froze, then gave a shocked little cry. Deep inside John's body, his cock twitched and pulsed. 

John groaned at the sensation, blindly reaching up to grab at Harold. His hands found Harold's shoulders, and he just held on, feeling the shudder of Harold underneath his palm. 

Harold gave a hitching gasp, and with less grace than he normally had, fumbled his hand down to stroke John. John had forgotten about his own pleasure, and the touch came as a sudden shock. His system was already so overwhelmed that it only took seconds of touch before his body gave up trying to control the sensation and spilled into Harold's hands. 

Harold made to pull out, but John, reacting instinctively, grunted and laced his ankles around the small of Harold's back. 

Harold gave a quiet chuckle, reaching out to run his fingers across John's right cheek. "Understood." His fingers traced up, catching tears that must have leaked out of the corners of John's eyes while they were fucking. "You're magnificent," Harold said, quietly reverent. 

John chuckled, feeling more relaxed than he ever had, stretched open and fucked out. He caught Harold's hand and laid a kiss against the palm. "Think that's my line. There's not many cocks like that in the world."

John gave Harold a heavy look. He hoped Harold would hear what was laying underneath the words. Not many cocks like that. No other men like Harold. 

Harold gave John a lopsided smile, and John knew the message had gotten through. Harold's hand trailed down John's cheek, down his neck, until it rested squarely in the center of his chest. "Not many that can handle them, either," he said. 

John heard the meaning behind that one, too. He covered Harold's hand with his own. "Let's do this again," he said, giving up on finding more elegant words.

Harold's fingers flexed against John's chest. "Yes. Let's."

**Author's Note:**

> Alright time for my dirty secret....
> 
> I have never watched Person of Interest. This fic was written through secondhand fandom osmosis, reading Astolat's fics, and looking up (1) wiki page. 
> 
> I hope I did the characters at least some sort of justice. *wry grin* 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading!


End file.
